


Executioners

by pantan



Series: Clumsy [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Choking, Clumsy!Hannibal, Cooking, ForTheLoveOfGodWill just talk to him, God have mercy on my soul, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal is still suave as fuck, Honesty is the best policy, Humor, I Don't Even Know, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I promise it's not much, I still don't understand why y'all think Clumsy!Hannibal is fun to read but, JesusChristWill just talk to him, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Murder, Murder Husbands, Oral Sex, Phone Sex, Pining, What Have I Done, Will Graham is So Done, Will Graham is a Cannibal, fucking somehow, it's painful to write, just a baby bit, semi-established relationships, slight murder kink, this series should be named Hannibal Fucks Himself Up: A Saga
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-06-14 09:22:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15385710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantan/pseuds/pantan
Summary: Will has a hard time telling Hannibal he's ready to take the next step. Hannibal just has a hard time. Part two.





	1. Honesty

Will Graham’s cell phone chimes as he stands over the split-open body of a local painter, and he smiles fondly when he sees the name on the display.

 

Jack Crawford watches like a hawk from the corner of the studio, brow rising higher and higher by the second, until Will wonders if it will disappear into his hairline. He indicates to the ringing mobile in his hand and shrugs. “It’s important.”

 

Jack is unamused but says, “Five minutes, and talk outside.  _ Some  _ of us are here to work.”

 

Will nods to Beverly on his way out of the room, and she shoots back a roguish wink. The studio is small, on the second floor of a cramped office building, and it takes no time at all to descend the narrow fire exit and head into the parking lot, with time to spare before the chiming stops.

 

He swipes the green button on his screen and holds it against his ear. “Jack gave me five minutes, so make it quick.”

 

“ _ That is terribly discourteous, Will _ ,” Hannibal Lecter chides, voice floating through the speaker like sugar dissolving in coffee.

 

“That’s all I get,” Will says. “I’m working at the moment, so your interruption is what’s  _ discourteous _ .”

 

There’s a pause. “ _ I miss you _ .”

 

Blood pools in his cheeks and he plays with a strand of hair, twirling it around a finger. “I miss you too,” he admits.

 

“ _ How fares the Georgia weather _ ?”

 

Will snorts. “I feel like you could cook an egg on the sidewalk. Heat and decaying bodies shut in humid rooms makes for terrible mustiness.”

 

“ _ Do you wish you were home _ ?”

 

“Of course I do,” Will sighs. “But I’ve got to stay up here for at least another night. Jack wants all the DNA evidence tested here, and I can’t leave until it’s finished. Speaking of, maybe we can talk more tonight? The sooner I get back to work the better.”

 

“ _ At least promise you will eat something halfway decent, yes? I can cover the expense _ .”

 

Will fights to keep his voice impassive. “I have a high-paying job too, you know. How about you make me something when I get back, instead?”

 

It’s as subtle an invitation as ever, but no one has ever accused Hannibal of being imperceptive. “ _ I thought you’d never ask _ .”

 

\--- --- ---

 

Beverly taps Will’s shoulder on their way out of the Atlanta forensics lab. “Hey, Will,” she starts, and nods to Jack, “Want to ditch the boss? I know some good places to get food in the city, if you want a little quality co-worker time.”

 

It’s a quiet drive into the thicket of restaurants and shopping complexes, but once they arrive at the sushi bar, Will is forced to admit that Beverly has amazing tastes; his promise to the good doctor will be fulfilled.

 

It’s a quiet location, tucked away behind a busy mall, with low lighting and many empty tables, but it’s very clean, and Will is ravenous. “I’ve been here once or twice before,” Beverly tells him as they take their seats at the bar, a perfect view of the chef over the counter. “A friend of mine used to live here, and we’d come when I was in town. You can get whatever you want, but the sashimi platter is out of this world.”

 

“Thanks for the suggestion,” he says and unfolds the menu.

 

“I haven’t seen you much lately,” Beverly inserts, casual. “Besides the whole… prison thing.”

 

The silence makes Will want to claw his ears off, pretend he’s asleep or insane. Whatever will get him out of  _ this _ . He should have known this was coming. Why didn’t he know this was coming?

 

“Look,” she deadpans, “I’m bad at this, okay? I’m  _ sorry  _ I thought you were a murderer. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you. I don’t know how to say it, but I wanted you to know.” She inhales, chuckles. “Right when we were becoming friends, too.”

 

Will scratches the back of his neck, then takes a long, slow sip of his water. “You know,” Will begins, placing his glass down gently, “You were the only person that visited me. Even if you only came by to talk shit. Jimmy and Brian were MIA, but you were  _ there _ . So, thanks, I guess.”

 

Beverly grins, and slaps him hard on the back. “We cool, buddy?”

 

He grins, rubbing his sore shoulder. “Yeah. Don’t worry about it.”

 

When Will’s spider roll arrives, Beverly makes a point of placing a few slices of her yellowtail on his plate.

 

“Try it,” she orders. “Friends share food.” It’s delicious, and he gives her a few pieces of his rolls, which she is happy to take in return. “What’ve you been up to, anyway?”

 

Will shrugs. “Not much. Lectures take a lot of time to plan.”

 

“I hear you,” she agrees. “Me, I’ve been seeing this girl. She’s nice, and I like her a lot, but I don’t know if it’ll work out, you know?”

 

He blinks, surprised. “Is that so?”

 

Beverly leans back, tilts her jaw in a way that is so her, so very  _ I’m thinking how to describe this to you _ . “She’s gorgeous,” she finally enunciates. “I just don’t know if she likes me as much as I like her. You ever get that way?”

 

Will wants to laugh out loud and cry at the same time, but settles for popping a piece of his roll in his mouth. “I know the feeling.” Beverly side-eyes him, and he knows he’s said too much, revealed a dangerous secret. Nervous, Will brings his glass to his lips.

 

“How long have you been dating Hannibal Lecter?”

 

The water sprays all over the spotless glass covering the fresh fish, and the chef makes a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat. Will apologizes, wipes it clean with a rag their waitress loans him. Beverly all too interested in her half-empty platter. Will frowns. “How did you know?”

 

“It’s kinda obvious,” she admits. “Preparing for lectures, my ass. You’ve gotta know you haven’t exactly been subtle about it? Jack mentioned you were on a date a few weeks ago, and you’re bad at hiding your smile when you text. Also your caller ID showed up under his name when you slipped out earlier.”

 

Caught, he tries to smooth things over. “It’s not really a  _ secret _ ,” Will emphasizes. “It’s just... It’s new. I’m still trying to figure out what’s going on.”

 

“Is it casual?”

 

“We haven’t outright said we’re exclusive, but…”

 

“But it feels that way?”

 

Will’s fast-gripped with embarrassment, and looks away. “Yeah.”

 

“Have you had sex?”

 

His face flushes a bright crimson. “I don’t know if that’s your business, Katz.”

 

Beverly sniffs. “Well, that’s fine by me. You don’t have to say.”

 

He hesitates. “We’ve kissed.”

 

She picks up a slice of tuna and dips it in the shallow pool of soy sauce. “Anything in particular stopping you?”

 

Will’s palms are sweating, and he rubs them on his trousers. “I guess I’m waiting for him to make a move,” he confesses. “I like him, and I know he likes me, but I don’t know if he’s ready for something like that. Especially because I don’t know what we  _ are _ . Is he my lover, my psychiatrist, my boyfriend?” Will winces. “Boyfriend and Hannibal don’t really jive.”

 

“You’re overthinking things,” Beverly says. “So what if you don’t have a title? He likes you, you like him. If he’s worthy of you he’ll listen when you tell him you’d like to progress things. If he’s uncomfortable with it, you’ll wait. It’s all about respect, Will, respect and communication. You be honest with him, things will become much more clear.”

 

“Honest, huh?” he grumbles. The ice in his half-empty glass collapses.

 

“Now that we’re officially mates, I’m here for advice or a sympathetic ear when you need it. Just promise me you’ll be there to offer me the same, yeah?” Beverly snorts. “Oh, and I won’t tell Jack. He’ll flip his shit.”

 

“Thank you, Beverly,” Will says. “Really.”

 

She smiles. “That’s what friends are for.”

 

They don’t speak much on the ride to the hotel, and Will is grateful for the chance to think. Beverly’s advice, simple though it may be, is excellent; communication, honesty, and respect. He’s been loath to ask Hannibal what the developments in their relationship mean, and as more time slips by, their shared kiss fades farther into the distance.

 

Will collapses face-first onto the stinky motel covers, too tired to be bothered by the scratching fabric that’s threatened him with a rash all week. Will closes his eyes and tries to reimagine the split painter, but finds he can only think of his conversation with Beverly.

 

She means well, he knows.

 

He’s just glad to have her as a friend, and not an enemy. She gives good advice, too. Will musters up just enough energy to roll onto his back, and finds himself staring at a shadow on the ceiling, cast by something from outside that he cannot see. It’s distorted on the popcorn-texture plaster, alien in its familiarity, compelling in its shape. Will takes a deep breath, holds it until his lungs burn.

 

“I want to have sex with Hannibal.”

 

The first step, honesty.

 

It feels good to say aloud, to admit it, even if to himself. Will  _ does  _ want to have sex with Hannibal, wants to run his hands and his tongue all over him, taste and touch every inch, every millimeter he can reach. The wind picks up outside the window, and the shadow moves.

 

Will allows his mind to wander.

 

Hannibal is pretty. Masculine. He has those cheekbones that could cut through osmium, always catching the light in ways that do wonders to complement the dazzle of his smile, rarer and more sacred still when it involves teeth. Hannibal has smiled like that for Will, and he feels a flush of pride, because it doesn’t often happen for others. In addition, Hannibal is tall, broad. His shoulders always roll under the thin linen of his dress shirts, and Will slides his eyes closed to capture the memories.

 

Hannibal has a great ass, too.

 

His lips are soft, gentle on their descent down Will’s throat. When Will holds especially still he can feel the scrape of teeth against the flesh, doesn’t fight the goosebumps when they rise. Hannibal kisses Will with the care that only a lover could, molding his mouth to Will’s over and over again, and when his tongue plunges past Will’s lips it’s hot, warm, too warm, perfect.

 

The front of Will’s pants are tight, and it’s the most natural thing in the world to pop the button on his fly and unhook the zipper, tooth by tooth. Will’s already heavy in his own hand when Hannibal drops his head to swirl his tongue in the dip of Will’s belly. He doesn’t stop there, and nips the trail of fine hairs till he gets to the source of the ache.

 

Will’s mobile rings.

 

Will inhales, sharp, and considers ignoring it. If Jack wants him to go to the lab right now he can  _ fuck off _ , but he catches the caller ID and reaches for it anyway.

 

_ “Hello, Will, _ ” says the real Hannibal.

 

Will’s daydream is gone, and he’s lying alone in his hotel room in Georgia, pants and underwear pushed to his knees, halfway hard cock twitching against his stomach. Will’s embarrassed - he should have called Hannibal back after he was decent. “Are we resuming our conversation?” he asks, and the shadow on the ceiling takes another new shape.

 

_ “You aren’t busy, are you, Will? I hadn’t thought I would be interrupting this late at night.” _

 

Will worries his lower lip because, for a single moment, he wants to tell Hannibal exactly what he interrupted. “I’m in my motel. Samples from the crime scene have all been cleaned up, so I’m all your for the night.”

 

There’s a silence on the other end that stretches a moment too long. Hannibal murmurs, “ _ Mine, Will _ ?”

 

The velvet and silk of Hannibal’s timbre sends waves through Will’s body, blood rushing to his groin, faster than any fantasy can compete with. The real thing is better, even if it’s a voice through a phone. Will’s aching again, and he still has his right hand on his stomach. His fingers twitch downward.

 

Will feels absolutely filthy for it, but he gives his dick a tug anyway.

 

“Yeah,” he tells Hannibal, fighting to keep his breath even. “All yours. What do you want to do with me?”

 

Another silence, shorter this time, before the line crackles and Hannibal says, “ _ Let’s discuss your rehabilitation. I was surprised that you asked me to cook for you, earlier. Did you truly mean it _ ?”

 

The depth of Hannibal’s tone, and what the speaker on the phone does to his voice, is incredible, sexy. Will strokes himself one more time, then again for good measure. This is a bad idea. “I meant it, Doctor Lecter. I know what it means.”

 

It doesn’t escape Will’s notice that he’s using his mobile for work, the standard-issue cell that the FBI has given him. It’s encrypted and password protected, and no one can tap the line. He’s given this number to three people, and Hannibal could have called his personal phone, if he’d wanted a regular chat. The sound of breath being drawn in, then a faint static as the exhale hits the microphone.

 

_ “Do you want me to kill someone, Will?” _

 

Will’s wrist doesn’t stop its path up and down his shaft, and he now fills his whole palm. A twinge of guilt rocks his movements, but he’s too aroused to stop now, and hurries his pace. Will licks his lips. “Would you do it?” he asks, words airy.

 

_ “If it’s for you? Without hesitation.” _

 

Will shudders - that shouldn't turn him on, it really shouldn’t, but Hannibal’s voice is deep and musky, like he’s screamed himself hoarse, and he’s made such a terrible declaration, a vow of loyalty, that Will’s fist tightens.

 

One, three, six pumps, and the newfound friction is delicious, his heart pounding against his ribs. His elbow rubs against the itchy sheets, and he doesn’t care. “I want to watch you do it,” he says, and he does.

 

_ “There will be plenty of time for that, Will. Plenty of time for our ventures, now and in the future. Do you want me to use my hands? _ ”

 

Hannibal’s hands are on Will’s skin, leaving trails of fire where they touch, and Will’s fisting his cock and remembering the taste of his lips. Hannibal’s voice pools like magma in his core, and Will’s barely able to disguise the tremor in his tone as he says, “Any way is fine. You’re doing it for me.”

 

“ _ And, Will _ ?” Hannibal continues, low and dangerous and sexy. “ _ Will you eat them, after I’ve made them from something hideous into something exquisite? Something just for you, with my own hands _ ?”

 

Will bites his lip to stop the moan, can’t find it in him to respond, because his skin tingles and he can’t feel his toes. His hand works up and down, over and over again on his shaft. Will’s cock is harder than it’s been in a long time, pulsing in time with his heartbeat, his lungs swelling in his chest.

 

“ _ Will you let me show you who I am? _ ”

 

Will comes, swallowing his gasps as white explodes behind his eyes. He comes in three spurts; once into his palm, twice over his abdomen. The smallest whimper of pleasure slips past his lips.

 

Will doesn’t even care if Hannibal heard it.

 

“Yes, Hannibal,” Will breathes. “I want to know everything about you.”


	2. Communication

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second installment. Hopefully there will be a shorter wait for the third!

When Hannibal closes the office door, he somehow manages to get his jacket caught in the teeth of the hinge, and the entire seam rips at the shoulder.

 

 _The rip heard ‘round the world_ , Will thinks.

 

Threads frayed over the arm of his dress shirt, eyes wide, and lips pressed tight together, Hannibal stares at the death of his suit. Will only watches, brow raised.

 

Hannibal slides the ruined jacket off his back and deposits it on the seat of his desk chair, decidedly out of sight. Will bites his lip to keep the bubbling laughter at bay; he doesn’t think Hannibal appreciates being made fun of. Even though it’s tempting…

 

A wry smile curls Hannibal’s lips, and he rolls his sleeves to the elbows. The first thing out of his mouth is, “You must allow me to purchase you more suits, Will. They compliment you in ways I doubt most could even imagine.”

 

Will breathes in through his nose, exhales through his mouth. “You’re just mad I didn’t dress up.”

 

“Perhaps.”

 

Will finds himself mirroring his host’s sleeves, bunching the flannel at the top of his forearms. He wonders if it’s an unconscious act, or if it speaks to a deeper part of him, the part that wishes he was freer. “I came straight here from the airport,” Will informs him, as though this will excuse his inappropriate fashion.

 

Hannibal isn't impressed. “Did you?”

 

“Haven’t even seen my dogs yet. No time to change, really.”

 

“Please take a seat, Will,” Hannibal calls, sliding a drawer open for his leather-bound notebook. “Unless you’d prefer to have one of our more casual meetings? This is your time, of course. We’ll use it how you see fit.”

 

“I thought you’d be asking me about Atlanta,” Will admits. He adjusts his glasses, moves to read the titles of Hannibal’s library instead of sitting, eyes scanning the diverse mix of languages. “You aren’t curious if I caught the painter’s killer?”

 

“I know you caught them,” Hannibal replies, sizing up two different shiny fountain pens. One, he tucks into the breast pocket of his shirt. The other, he holds in his hand. “I consider myself your closest acquaintance. If I know anything about you, Will, it’s the cleverness of that brilliant mind you have. I’m privileged to have seen it up close, to have examined it-” Hannibal pauses, thoughtful. “Tasted it.”

 

“You’re quite confident in my overactive imagination,” Will notes, struggling to keep the flatness out of his voice.

 

“Don’t doubt the prowess of imagination, Will. Those very building blocks are the foundation upon which we’ve come to intimacies.”

 

Will’s neck grows hot; he recalls their last phone call, and turns sharply back to the books.

 

There’s a moment of silence that Hannibal breaks. “It’s occurred to me that while you have pride in your work and your ability to help people, you are caught between your desire to explore what your empathy can achieve and how it can destroy you.”

 

Will only reads the spines, words he doesn’t understand.

 

“You love and hate it, much the same as you’ve grown to love and hate yourself.”

 

Will is beginning to adjust to the idea of occasionally murdering people.

 

Not that he plans to make it a habit, but the concept of death and killing others is not the shadowed monster it once was, nor the threat of insanity closing around his mind like fingers on a throat. Will now considers the possibility as one might consider riding a roller coaster with a two-hundred-foot drop; could be fun, might still make him sick.

 

“Maybe we should have one of those casual meetings, after all,” Will intones, though it doesn’t quite hide the panic.

 

A beat. “Certainly.”

 

Will doesn’t know what to say with his throat squeezing in on itself, so he swallows to loosen the muscles. “You’re only half-right, anyway. The killer turned herself in. She made a point of letting us know that the painter she killed was her own brand of art. She’s convinced people will buy her work now that she’s in prison.”

 

“Won’t they?”

 

“Maybe,” Will admits. “In their own way, serial killers are like celebrities. Their victims are remembered by their murderer's name and not their own. It’s the ultimate indignity.”

 

“This killer from Atlanta sounds cheap.” Hannibal sighs, and Will looks back in time to watch him sink into his usual chair. The glass side table that shattered has been replaced with an identical replica. Hannibal sets his book atop it, crossing one knee over the other.

 

Will sees his shoulder muscles flex through his dress shirt, then relax. He licks his lips. “Cheap?”

 

“She repulses me.”

 

“Because she’s a murderer?”

 

Hannibal’s lips curve. “That would make me a great hypocrite, Will.”

 

“Then why?”

 

“She treated her victim like a commercial space on prime-time television.”

 

Will abandons the books in favor of his chair. He sinks into it, allowing his eyes to dart from Hannibal’s passive face to the red stripes on the curtains, lit by the midday sun. “There is a certain…” he hesitates, “ _irreverence_ to her methods. There’s no actual art in the way she killed the painter, ironic for what she wants to be remembered for. There’s nothing _sacred_ about how she - I don’t understand how it’s _art_ \-  it’s not like how _you_ kill _-_ ”

 

He cuts off.

 

Teeth snap shut.

 

His words, like armor, melt away under the intensity of Hannibal’s gaze, leaving Will raw, exposed, naked.

 

“Would you like dinner, Will?” Hannibal murmurs.

 

Will’s fingers tremble in tight fists. “Yes. I’d like that very much.”

 

Hannibal inhales. “I’ve yet to prepare ingredients.”

 

Heat pools in his belly at the implication; Will fights the urge to clear his throat.

 

“I had hoped,” Hannibal begins, voice dropped half an octave, quiet and gentle, “we would be able to acquire them together.”

 

“You mean tonight?”

 

“If you’re ready. I have no desire to rush you.”

 

And isn’t this exactly what Will has been craving, what he’s been thirsty to explore? Is this not the darkest part of himself, bare to the light for the first time, in need of a name? Will remembers roller coasters, and swallows. “Do you have someone in mind?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Is he a bad person?”

 

A pause; “He once splashed rainwater on my shoes and didn’t apologize.”

 

Will’s mouth is dry. “A pig, then. Playing in mud.”

 

“I understand my philosophy may not mold to yours. If you prefer, you can be the one to choose.”

 

Will shakes his head. “All swine must visit the butcher one day. Besides, you promised to show me who you are. I want to see it, how you transform them.”

 

There’s a strange kind of bliss in Hannibal’s expression, as if he’s proud of Will, like Will has said the magic words and all the world will bow at their feet. “I must confess,” Hannibal says, “I am more interested in _your_ transformation, Will.”

 

And, Will thinks as he contemplates what this evening will mean for their souls, for both of them and the evolution of their relationship, he’s ready.

 

There's a creak, a groan, and Hannibal's chair collapses under him. He grabs blindly for something to prevent his fall, seizing the newly replaced side table, but it shatters on impact with the floor.

 

"Oh, dear," Hannibal intones, sitting in the remains of his chair and a thousand shards of brand new glass.

 

Will drops his head to his hands. "How. Just, how."

 

"Never fear, Will," Hannibal says, getting to his feet and dusting off his slacks. "I have many extras in storage."

 

\--- --- ---

 

Will turns the business card over and over again in his hands, reading the name for the hundredth time, admiring the professional logo and muted colors. Practical. To the point.

 

Boring.

 

Hannibal’s hands are at ten and two on the steering wheel of his car, eyes fixed on the dark road ahead. The headlights illuminate the immediate space before them and the pines on the side of the road, but the soft yellow cannot pierce the first layer of the forest, leaving the black beyond the boughs untouched.

 

Hannibal has really dressed up tonight; he’s in a custom three-piece white-and-grey plaid suit, silk eggshell shirt, paisley-mahogany tie and matching pocket square. His brown Italian leather wingtips pedal the gas, and the Patek Philippe bronze-faced watch with ivory hands catches the moonlight, shining in Will’s eyes.

 

Over the entire ensemble, from his toes to his neck, Hannibal works a plastic jumpsuit. Will tries not to picture the clear material smearing with blood, can’t. Of course, Hannibal had insisted Will wear one too.

 

To protect his clothes, just in case, he had said.

 

Will declined.

 

He only has one outfit worth preserving, and it’s stashed in his closet in Wolf Trap. Will has, without mentioning it to Hannibal, ordered a few more suits from Christopher and Juliette’s boutique. They’re meant to be a surprise, and unlike his first visit to the shop, Will won’t have the money to rush every order. They won’t be ready for at least another week.

 

The look on Hannibal’s face when he realizes all of it is for him will be more than worth the wait.

 

“Do you always wear that?” Will asks, unable to keep his curiosity at bay.

 

Hannibal doesn’t so much as flinch. “Sometimes.”

 

“When you kill indoors?”

 

Hannibal hums.

 

Will reexamines the business card, leaning as far back into the seat as he can go. He wishes the interior would just eat him whole, and gulp down the nervous beating in his chest. “Is it hard?” he asks, the childish question tumbling from his lips before he can bridle it. “The first time, I mean.”

 

“This is not your first time, Will,” Hannibal reminds him.

 

“This is different, Hannibal. This is premeditated. I’m not shooting someone to stop them from slicing open their daughter’s throat.”

 

Hannibal adjusts his grip on the wheel. “You may feel overwhelmed. No matter what you do, Will, your sense of self-preservation must be your utmost priority tonight. Run, hide, fight. Everyone responds to threats on their life differently. Should our pig choose to fight, he will have no qualms hurting the people that intend to kill him. Stay vigilant.”

 

Will opens his mouth to ask Hannibal who the first person he killed was, but feels his lips shut.

 

It seems an oddly personal question, and maybe not fit for tonight.

 

He clears his throat instead. “George Radcliffe. The man who splashed rainwater on the Chesapeake Ripper’s shoes. The punishment for his crime is manifesting itself in a way I doubt he realized it could.”

 

“Indeed not. Though the offense was as personal to me as his death will feel to him, and subpar novelists take everything personally.”

 

Will wants to ask exactly what he should do, but forces himself to stay quiet.

 

The whole point is that he discovers the joys and the pitfalls for himself, abandon himself fully and truly to his dark side, to the shadow that’s always lingered in the hidden corners of his mind. All they’ve discussed is that Will is going through the front door.

 

And, when Will lifts his fist and knocks thirteen minutes later, he still has no idea what to say.

 

George Radcliffe answers in his bathrobe, brown hair damp from the shower, blue irises bright as a cloudless sky. He’s in his late thirties, older than Will but younger than Hannibal, a slight kiss of grey at the temples. His face splits, and his teeth are crooked.

 

“You must be Phillip Black,” he greets, holding out a hand.

 

Will’s pulse quickens - if he’s expecting someone, then they can’t stay long. But, some mysterious force lifts Will’s cheeks, an invisible string lifts his wrist, and he shakes his victim’s hand. “Good to finally meet you, George,” he returns.

 

George holds the front door open wide, and Will enters. “I wasn’t expecting you for another hour at least,” George tells him, leading him into the home’s bohemian living room.

 

“I left early,” Will lies. “Supposed to be some accident over on I-68, but it cleared up right as I passed through.”

 

“No matter,” George chuckles, motioning to the velvet sofa colored cyan. “But you don’t mind if I get changed before the interview, right? I know you said you weren’t going to take any pictures, but I think I’ll do better if I’m dressed to impress.”

 

Will smiles and shakes his head. “Feel free. I'm excited to speak with you.”

 

"This project is going to revolutionize my career, I'm telling you." On his way up the stairs, George cries, “Help yourself to some coffee, Phil! I just brewed a big pot. Mugs left of the dishwasher.”

 

Will calls back, “Thanks!”

 

Hannibal is already in the kitchen when Will arrives. The window behind him is wide open, glass unbroken. Words rise in Will’s throat to warn Hannibal about the guest George expects in an hour, but die in his throat as Hannibal holds a plastic-covered finger to his lips.

 

Will’s heart beats like a drum solo, anticipation, horror, and even hunger building deep within his gut.

 

Hannibal motions to the knife block, then to the pot of steaming coffee.

 

Mug of joe in hand, Will ascends the stairs, ears piqued.

 

George is in a bedroom at the end of a narrow hall, humming. The door is open, yellow light spilling onto the linen cupboard next to the bathroom. Will keeps his right hand behind his back, the mug clutched tight in his left. Will tip-toes across the carpet, approaching the open door.

 

George rounds the corner into the hall in a white shirt and jeans. He starts upon seeing Will, pauses, smiles. “How’s that coffee, Phil?” he asks.

 

Will throws it on his face.

 

George stumbles back, shoulders smashing to the wall, screeches as he wipes the hot coffee away with one arm. Will lunges, breathless, knife from the kitchen slicing downward. George’s strong fingers catch Will’s wrist with the blade inches from his chest, gasping and blinking the irritant from his eyes.

 

“Fuck!” George yells. Then, “HELP! HELP ME, ANYONE!”

 

A swift knee to the belly forces George to swallow his scream, and with him doubled over, Will slices down again. The edge grazes George’s arm, splitting the sleeve of his shirt, and before Will can make another move George rams Will into the bedroom with his shoulder, the knife tumbling from his grip.

 

George is on his feet and in the hallway before Will can process the pain in the back of his head, and the door slams shut, footsteps thundering down the stairs.

 

Hannibal has been right to warn him - George is a fighter.

 

Ears ringing, limbs filled with led, Will gets to his feet like a corpse rising from the grave, grabs the kitchen knife, and opens the door. George is in the living room, frantically dialing on his landline.

 

“What the fuck is wrong with this?” he hisses, smacks the receiver. “Work!”

 

“It won’t,” Will says, voice as flat as still water.

 

George whirls around, eyes round and arm bleeding.

 

“We cut the lines,” Will explains. “And you’ll never see your cell phone again.”

 

George makes a break for the front door, but Will is faster; he swipes once, twice, at George’s stomach, his yelp a confirmation of contact on at least one. George grabs the blade in both hands, palms slit to ribbons, blood dripping to the floor. He’s taller, stronger than Will, and tosses the knife away. A set of knuckles connects to Will’s jaw, and his brain rattles in his skull.

 

Will’s chin is bloody, his nose tight, and he has only enough time to wrap his hands around George’s throat before he’s hit again.

 

George gasps, slaps at Will’s arms, smears them in red. Will doesn’t let go, squeezes harder. George’s foot flies out, catches Will in the ribs, winds him. George scrambles for the kitchen, Will hot on his tail.

 

Will doesn't feel sick at all, even covered in George's blood. It's seeped into his clothes and spread across his mouth, on his lips; Will licks it away. He's hungry, he's ravenous, he's ready for the two-hundred-foot drop, and this roller coaster threatens to become his favorite ride.

 

By the time Will stumbles to the fridge, Hannibal has another knife in George’s shoulder. He’s calm, stone-faced and quiet, but his eyes are _alive_.

 

This, Will thinks, is the Chesapeake Ripper.

 

This is Hannibal Lecter.

 

Now, Will can see him.

 

Maybe George recognizes him - his eyes begin to bulge.

 

“Your manners are as polished as your novels, George,” Hannibal chastises. “What’s to be done about that?”

 

“Don’t hurt me,” George begs.

 

Hannibal only looks at Will, nods to the counter top. On it is a cast-iron pan.

 

Will takes it wordlessly. It’s heavy, an anvil for his fist, dragging him into the kitchen floor. The handle is wrapped in Hannibal’s mahogany-paisley pocket square, preventing prints. Hannibal removes the knife, George left gasping for breath and light-headed on the tile, gushing from his shoulder.

 

Upon closer observation of the pan, it’s not well cared for, the bottom brown and burned, the usual shine of seasoned iron dulled to a worn grey. The state of George’s kitchen as a whole is somewhat of a mess, and had Will been the judge and Hannibal the jury for the crime of an unclean cooking space, George would be given the death penalty.

 

This is, perhaps, the greatest insult to Hannibal, and it’s why Will lifts the pan far above his head, pauses for a breath, and swings down.

 

\--- --- ---

 

“Are you _wearing_ the shoes he splashed rainwater on?” Will asks, content to leave his feet on Hannibal’s sofa.

 

Hannibal turns the page of the book he’s reading, doesn’t look up. The brown Italian wingtips do have a strange stain on them, upon second glance. “The oven will finish soon. Perhaps you can set the table?”

 

Table set, Will returns to the study and puts his feet back on the cushion, nestling his toes just beneath the warmth of Hannibal’s thigh.

 

Hannibal smiles, faint but there, and it’s only for Will, a reward for their actions.

 

“Have you ever thought about killing me?” Will blurts before he can stop himself.

 

Hannibal doesn’t bat an eye. “I’ve thought about killing most anyone I meet. Your empathy made you a genuine threat to my quality of life, Will, and had you discovered my secret before we became friends I might have considered it.”

 

A pause.

 

“Things are different now, of course.”

 

Will admires the way Hannibal tilts his head when he turns the page, notes the slight part betwixt his thin lips, the imperceptible gleam of his tongue as it darts out to wet his mouth. He’d looked magnificent holding the blade that burrowed deep into George’s shoulder, truly in his element.

 

He let Will deal the final blow, too. This changes their relationship yet again, but still unspoken, Will isn’t sure what’s different. But, Will knows what he wants.

 

What had Beverly said?

 

Honesty, communication, respect.

 

Will’s been honest with himself. The next step is…

 

Will snatches the book from Hannibal’s fingertips.

 

Hannibal stares. “Can I help you, Will?”

 

“Yeah,” Will gruffs, fighting nerves. “You can.”

 

Hannibal waits.

 

Will swallows; he’s never been great with words, even poorer with eye contact, and the certainty that Hannibal is always trying to dissect what’s happening in Will’s head causes an anxiety that will not be easy to beat. It’s easy to teach classes at Quantico - all he does is talk at the students, and they listen. It’s isn’t a real conversation, and by no means a _heart to heart_.

 

So, Will does the next best thing, and communicates with his actions instead.

 

He takes Hannibal’s head in his hands, leans as far forward as he can, mashes their lips together. With his toes still pressed between the sofa and Hannibal’s leg, Will’s knees are drawn to his chest, Hannibal’s body twisted to accommodate the stretch. Their mouths separate with a _pop_.

 

They stare at each other.

 

Far away in the kitchen, the oven dings.

 

Hannibal winds his fingers into the hair at the base of Will’s skull, pulls him closer. One, two breaths, a brush of noses, a tangle of lips, and Hannibal kisses Will, slow and soft and sensual, like he did the first time. There’s a gentleness, a reverence, that hadn’t been present before, but Hannibal makes sure to worship Will’s mouth as he adjusts their bodies.

 

Will’s shoulders press into the sofa, his hips slid towards the middle. Hannibal hovers above him, one knee between Will’s legs. He runs his hands over Will’s chest, through his hair, down his thighs. The intensity of the kiss doesn’t increase, however, and it hits him that Hannibal waits to know what _Will_ wants.

 

Communication.

 

Will clues him in by running his tongue along Hannibal’s bottom lip.

 

Hannibal exhales, eyelashes fluttering against Will’s cheeks, and he dips his head, nips Will’s jaw with his teeth, then plunges his tongue into Will’s mouth.

 

Hannibal tastes like toothpaste, impeccable and clean. His mouth is warm and sweet and good, and Will sighs into it. His fingers clutch at Hannibal’s shirt, fighting with the jacket, then the vest, and finally, the buttons. Three down, Will lifts his lips to Hannibal’s exposed throat, kissing and licking and biting the flesh, erection tightening the front of his trousers.

 

“Will,” Hannibal breathes. “I missed you.”

 

“I missed you, too,” Will murmurs. Their foreheads touch, and for several seconds they exist in the same space, share the same breath. “You have no idea how much.”

 

“I have an inkling,” Hannibal admits, eyes sparkling.

 

“What… What does that mean?”

 

Hannibal chuckles, places a chaste kiss to Will’s cheek. “You weren’t as subtle over the phone as you’d hoped.”

 

A heat wave sweeps over him from head to toe, settling in his cheeks, as mortifying as it is arousing. “You knew?”

 

“Of course. You were irresistible. And tonight you were stunning. Like you were born for this, Will. A rare beauty.”

 

“I wanted to use my hands,” Will admits. “I wanted it to feel… personal.”

 

Hannibal’s eyes go black. “Show me.”

 

Will reaches up, wraps his fingers around Hannibal’s throat. He squeezes. Hannibal exhales, lips curving into a smile.

 

“You are _intoxicating_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sicknasty


End file.
